“Let’s figure out where we’d bury it,” Narud said.
They were still discussing the matter when Jethro entered the arcaded corridor running around the edge of the courtyard. He had his hood drawn and a shroud of concealing magic around him. He flattened against a wall to let a pair of young harem women pass, and Chantmer took the moment to study him.
Jethro was a decent fellow, in spite of his limitations. He held tremendous quantities of knowledge in his head, and was hardworking and loyal. And he was also respectful of Chantmer and Narud, rather than resentful of having his space commandeered as some might have been. He called them both master, even though Chantmer was technically still an apprentice.
That is only a formality, he thought with a glance at Narud. I am the better of any of them, except Memnet. And the archivist is clever enough to see it.
Someday, when the time came to found his own order, Chantmer might bring Jethro along, and possibly Karla, too, assuming they were wise enough to take the opportunity. It would take a good deal to lure them out of Syrmarria. No pasha ever loved his harem the way these archivists lavished attention on their library.
Jethro looked about, clearly searching for Chantmer and Narud. As a member of their order, he would sense their presence, but the pair were traveling heavily cloaked.
“Are we safe here?” Chantmer asked.
“I don’t feel the enemy,” Narud said.
Chantmer pulled back his hood and let the concealers slip a fraction. Jethro spotted him and approached. His eyes were less bleary than usual, the bags not so pronounced, and Chantmer guessed he’d been moving about the palace rather than hunched over his books and papers.
“I found one of them, Masters. I know where he’s gone.”
“You have?” Chantmer asked, surprised. “And how have you managed, where we have not?”
“I was at the palace gate, refreshing the rune of warning, when I felt him come past.”
Chantmer was still confused. “They’re both heavily cloaked.”
“This was outside the gate.”
“Ah, that explains it. Hmm, I wish there was something we could do with it. Even knowing he left the palace doesn’t particularly help. The city is big enough—he could be anywhere.”
A hint of a smile touched Jethro’s mouth. “Except that he brushed a rune as he passed—he’s been marked.”
Chantmer stiffened. Now this was news. He couldn’t remember the precise nature of the ward at the gate, but it was old, put in place by Memnet himself, and he knew its sort. Those runes were useful for tracking the comings and goings of viziers and khalifs, who were always scheming something or other. Aristonia hadn’t remained peaceful all those years simply because of the goodness of its leaders; the wise, guiding hand of the order had snuffed any number of plots and secret treaties before they could cause trouble.
“He might very well be dragging a trail of it through the city with him,” Chantmer said.
“Down where there’s no protective wards to hide him, either,” Narud said. “What do you suppose he’s up to? A stroll through the souks, or something else?”
“Either way, he’ll be easier to track down outside the palace walls,” Chantmer said. “Let’s hope he’s alone—he’ll be easy prey. Come on.”
Narud glanced at Jethro. “You, too, friend. We might need your help with the dark acolytes.”
Chantmer doubted Jethro’s skills would amount to much, and he almost protested that they would be too busy staying cloaked while tracking the dark acolytes to worry about hiding the archivist as well. But he supposed Jethro had earned the opportunity with this information, and as they slipped past the guards at the gatehouse a few minutes later, and he confirmed that the ward at the door had been disturbed, another possibility occurred to him.
Jethro could serve a useful purpose in battle. None of the archivists commanded much power, but they all had a good deal of knowledge in their heads, Jethro more than any of them. He rivaled Markal in that regard, and could feed Chantmer and Narud incantations.
They descended the cobbled street from the palace and into the neighborhoods where the more prosperous class of merchants lived in their sturdy stone buildings with glass windows and strong oak doors. Armed servants manned guard posts at the larger homes, and one alert fellow with a pike even spotted the trio approaching and stepped out of his fortified position to challenge them before the magic they carried distracted him and they slipped away.
“You stand out,” Chantmer told Jethro. “Can you master a concealing spell? Good, do it now.”
Once that was accomplished, they continued following the trail left by the dark acolyte for another few streets, then it seemed to either dissolve or double back on itself. Chantmer touched the sun-warmed stone of the buildings lining the street, searching for it, and decided that the trail was confused because it divided in two.
“Zartosht must have brought his assistant,” he said. “And they split apart here.”
“Are you sure she is the assistant?” Narud said. “Perhaps it’s the other way around.”
“She had better be,” Chantmer said. “I fought the man, and he has some power to him. If the woman is his equal or better, we might have some difficulties.”
“Her name is Jasmeen,” Jethro said.
Chantmer gave him a sharp look. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve been observing, asking questions. I have contacts in the palace, and some of them are not so discreet as they might be.”
“You should have said something,” Chantmer said. “It would be another angle for us to get at them.”
“I tried, and you dismissed me.”
“Yes, well. Next time, mention it with more confidence. Is Zartosht stronger, or is it this Jasmeen character?”
“Neither answers to the other. They seem to be equals.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Like the two of us.” Chantmer gestured between himself and Narud. “I should have guessed it would be the same.”
“Not precisely the same, no.” Jethro frowned. “Narud is a wizard and you are still an apprentice.”
“Except that Narud isn’t commanding me,” Chantmer said irritably, “so the comparison holds true.”
What was that thought he’d had about recruiting Jethro to a new order of wizards? The man was practically taunting him.
Have yourself made a wizard, and his respect will return.
Perhaps true, but irrelevant. There was no need to prove himself—that sort of thinking was for Nathaliey, perhaps, but not for him—his qualities would make themselves known sooner, rather than later.
“Is there a way to know which trail belongs to Jasmeen and which to Zartosht?” Narud asked.
Chantmer stepped up to the house where he’d noticed the trails diverging. He found one of them, but the other was too faint to pick up. A donkey cart clattered by, filled with baskets of dates and dried figs, and the wheels stirred up the magic further.
“This one is Zartosht.” Chantmer glanced down the alley. “He’s headed for the souks.”
“What for?” Narud asked. “Alchemy? Potions?”
“Could be. I wish I knew where the other one went.”
But Jasmeen’s trail—if that was indeed who it belonged to—disappeared somewhere on this street. She seemed to have picked up a little bit of the rune Zartosht had activated on his way out of the palace, but not enough to follow independently.
“Never mind,” he said. “We’ll find Zartosht. That’s more than enough for tonight.”
A few minutes later, they entered the twisting souks, with their carpet sellers, ironmongers, money changers, and spice shops. Chantmer expected Zartosht to linger among the shops selling exotic spices from the south—nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon—as some of the necromancer’s magic seemed to use physical components. Or maybe he would buy salves and elixirs sold in the apothecaries to mix his own potions and poisons; Chantmer had been careful in how he procured his food, aware that the enemy, fru
strated in an attempt to reach them via magical means, could just as easily assassinate them via a tainted pastry or flagon of wine.
But the dark acolyte had stopped at none of these places, and instead weaved his way through the souks in seemingly no pattern at all. Chantmer sensed where the man had touched a doorway or scraped a stone with the toe of his sandal, but he hadn’t lingered in any one place.
“What the devil is he is up to?” Chantmer asked. “Why all this back and forth?”
“Possibly searching for our traps, nothing more,” Narud said.
“Something else just occurred to me. Why hasn’t King Toth come to Syrmarria to search for the library himself?”
“Like I said when you suggested tearing down the palace, why do you assume it would be that easy? He might have no more success than his acolytes, not quickly enough to matter. He has a road to build, and kingdoms to conquer and enslave.”
“The knowledge in that library is irreplaceable.”
“He has his necromancy already,” Narud said. “Veyre is the land of the torturers guild—they have their own books, their own dark arts, and it seems that Toth is satisfied with their mastery.”
“Exactly my thinking,” Chantmer said. “He doesn’t need our books, not like we do, anyway. The dark acolytes cut a few pages from the Book of Gods, but they haven’t made their way back in, and seem more intent on fighting us than finding the library. Why?”
“To distract us from defending the gardens, most likely,” Narud said.
“Maybe,” Chantmer said, but he wasn’t convinced. “Or maybe it would serve the enemy just as well to destroy the library as to capture it.”
Jethro narrowed his eyes. “May the Brothers kill them if they try.”
“Easy, friend,” Chantmer said.
Chantmer understood the archivist’s sentiment; the first time he’d heard that someone had cut pages from the Book of Gods, it had made him physically ill. To imagine someone cutting all the books, tearing up scrolls and smashing ancient tablets, was almost too horrifying to contemplate.
They reached the end of the maze-like souks and emerged from the canopies that marked every stall and storefront. He lifted his head to take in the warmth of the sun, but it had already dipped to the west, and shadows crept across the streets. The trail continued ahead, but it was growing faint; much longer and it would disappear entirely, and they’d be forced to return to the palace in defeat.
The alley emptied into a large square. During the day, the square was an intersection of a dozen different alleys and roads, and foot, cart, and animal traffic made a chaotic jumble in the middle, with every individual swimming through opposing currents to get across.
Now, night market people were chasing off those still trying to use it for transit. Men shoveled away the dung of horses, donkeys, and camels, as well as other rubbish that had accumulated throughout the day. Other people erected stalls and threw down carpets. Men lit enormous brass lamps around the edges, while women shuffled in with enormous baskets balanced on their heads, dropped them in place, then spread their wares. A man walked by clinking with copper mugs that festooned him like a jongleur’s bells, wheeling a larger kettle of water that he would sell by the cup to the thirsty people of the market.
Another man sat on a rug and built a pyramid of molars, together with a row of pincers, pliers, and other tools for digging out infected teeth. Men and women stoked fires for cooking spits of meat, and the pungent odor of burning charcoal filled the air. Two men with turbans and dark, khat-stained teeth opened baskets and pulled out adders and cobras, which they began to charm with flutes while curious children watched. A man with monkeys gathered another crowd a safe distance from the snakes. One monkey teased and cavorted with the crowd, while the second collected coins in a bent metal cup.
The whole market seemed to have materialized in minutes, and the three companions from the order looked through the growing crowds with frustration. There was no more trace of the dark acolyte, at least nothing that could be picked up against the background of charms and potions of card readers, fortune-tellers, and others using bits of weak and whispered magic that filled the air with a scent every bit as pungent as the smell of cook fires.
Chantmer was about to suggest that they turn back when he noticed a curious clearing on the far side of the square in the middle of all the pressing mass of people. He was a good head taller than nearly everyone standing in his way, and he used his vantage to scan over the crowds. There was a second hole about a hundred feet west of the first. People bumped against both clearings, changed course, and skirted the edges without seeming to be aware that something was pushing them away.
“I may have discovered our dark acolytes,” he said, “but I don’t suppose you can see from down there, since both of you are rather short. Follow me.”
“Wait,” Narud said. “We need another cloaking spell.”
“Yes,” Chantmer agreed. “Something more profound. Jethro, there’s one I know, something about umbra videtur, but the full incantation eludes me at the moment.”
Jethro got a faraway look in his watery eyes, as if he were searching his own personal archives. A curt nod. “Yes, I know the one. I’ll feed you the words.”
“But not here.” Chantmer looked about for a suitable place. “There, do you see the man with the wine casks? That will give us shelter.”
When Chantmer, Narud, and Jethro reemerged from behind the casks a minute later, they were deep in a protective shield of magic, and the crowd bent around them, with people instinctively veering away or suddenly finding something interesting to look at on the far side of the night market. Chantmer could no longer see his own companions, but felt their presence easily enough. Narud was leading the other two, slow and cautious, but at a pace that allowed the movement of the crowd away from them to seem natural.
They reached the first of the two empty spaces Chantmer had detected from the side of the square. People continued to stream into the night market, and he wondered why a young acrobat or juice seller didn’t notice the clear spot in the crowds and try to stake his claim, but apparently, they were all too weak-minded to attempt such a thing.
To be honest, if the square had been empty, he’d have also walked past without a second thought. There was nobody visible, and no magic scent that he could detect. The dark acolytes had their skills in concealment, he had to admit, nearly equal to those of the order, and it made him wonder how many times they’d crossed paths in the palace with neither side detecting the other’s presence. Still, it was startling to see it play out right in front of his face.
And disconcerting to stare at the center of the clearing and see nothing except a shimmer, like heat rising from a sun-baked stone. That shimmer must be the dark acolyte in the center doing . . . well, what, exactly? And which one was it, Jasmeen or Zartosht?
Chantmer turned his hands palm down and let his power rise to the surface until his pores tingled. One incantation and he could sweep away the concealment.
A hand closed on his wrist, and Narud whispered in his ear. “Don’t look for the enemy. Study the ground instead.”
Chantmer stared at the paving stones, concentrating, and spotted movement. There was a sharpened quill scratching at the stone, suspended in the air by an invisible hand. The stylus scraped a rune into the stone, digging through caked-on dirt and dung and other filth to make a simple figure of some kind. When it finished, it began anew, repeating the strokes. A rune, something to call up magic here, in the center of the night market. It must be important to go to such effort, but what was it, exactly?
Chantmer stepped forward, ignoring Narud’s warning hiss, and pressed against the buffer surrounding the dark acolyte. When he touched the edge of the clearing, his head felt suddenly light and distracted, and his feet wanted to carry him elsewhere. He resisted, but there was a physical presence, too, a firm and insistent hand, that pressed against his chest and tried to push him backward. He kept resisting until the feeling sub
sided, then dropped to his haunches a few feet away from the center of the empty space to watch.
The quill made the same scratching mark, over and over. Very simple, nothing complex about it: a line, a circle at one end, and two crosshatches in the middle. Ah, no, that wasn’t the whole of it; there was also a complex rune, something in the old tongue, but it was already deeply embedded in the stone. Old, and dirt-caked; it was not new. So the acolyte had found this preexisting rune and was now adding a final touch to give a specific incarnation.
What the devil were the acolytes doing? Raising something, he thought. Preparing a doorway for something to enter. The rune was the doorway, and the line, circle, and crosshatches represented what would pass through. There was danger here; he felt it radiating through his feet, into his legs, and then down through his arms to his trembling hands.
Chantmer was losing control, and if he didn’t back away, his concealing magic would slip, and the enemy would spot him. He rose slowly and took a step back. And with that motion, the need to escape the dark acolyte’s protective bubble came upon him with a vengeance, and he wanted nothing more than to turn on his heel and run. He forced himself to slow, and continued walking until he’d stepped beyond the enemy’s magic shield.
“What is it?” Narud’s voice whispered urgently from Chantmer’s right. The wizard was still invisible. “What did you see?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever they’re doing, it’s something terrible, something that has the potential to destroy this city. We need to stop them.”
He took in the crowded night market, now jammed with people. Probably one in every ten Syrmarrians was in this square right now, along with hundreds of foreign merchants and travelers. It was hard to imagine a worse place to fight a battle. Innocents would die.
“We know where they are,” Chantmer said, “but we might not find them a second time if we return to the palace. We can’t let this opportunity pass—we have to destroy them now.”
The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy Page 51